The Zen Man (22 page)

I glanced over at her. “You didn’t mention that.”

“Just remembered. He had quite the lover-boy reputation, as I recall.”

“Married?”

“No idea.”

“I don’t want the two of you doing lunch.”

She sputtered a laugh. “Please. I’m playing PI, not Mata Hari.”

I pulled over to a bus loading only spot directly in front of the gray and glass high rise. Walt’s office was on the fifteenth floor.

“Meeting Sam at his office?” asked Laura, doing a last check of her hair in the rear-view mirror.

“No, some over-priced gourmet sandwich next door. I’ll order a pickle.”

“Hey, meant to ask—what did he mean about checking some goods in your car?”

A horn blared behind us.

“I’m blocking traffic, need to go. We’ll talk later.”

She gave me an air kiss and exited the car.

I’d been too chicken to bring up the Santa-and-the-sawed-off-shotgun incident. Hadn’t been ready to open that Pandora’s box with Laura, get her upset. But her mind was like a mental calculator, taking in data, filing it in orderly columns, ready for instant retrieval at a later date. She’d ask again.

I continued down 18th, my thoughts shifting to Walt Dixon. It’d taken some serious straining of the synapses, but I’d finally recalled him on the stand six years ago, a surly look on his face, claiming our investigator had stalked him and he’d been forced to get a restraining order—I don’t know about the forced part but the court did give him a restraining order, which left Sam and I looking not so swift for having hired that numbnut. Worse, Walt shoved a cold dagger into our case with compelling documentation that TeleForce Investment Fund Management transactions, all electronic, were automatically backed up to a secure server, and every penny could be accounted for. Seemed some industrious CPAs had reviewed those backups, and there were notarized affidavits to prove it.

Sam and I hadn’t known about those automatic backups. So we sat there in the courtroom, trying not to look as though our faces weren’t covered in Grade A egg.

I turned east on 19th, punched on the car radio. Some cowboy was strumming a twangy guitar, crooning about a woman who’d done walked out on him. I was beginning to wonder if everybody in the Midwest and South made it a habit to demolish every relationship they stumbled into. I was deep into these important thoughts when a distant wailing pulled me out of my reverie, growing louder until the air gyrated with its ear-drum-banging shriek.

I glanced in the rearview mirror, saw a panel of blue and red lights flashing at the top of the windshield on a white Ford Crown Victoria. Shit. In a matter of a few blocks, I’d managed to offend an undercover officer. I pulled over, as did the Ford, and killed the engine.

“Keep your hands on the dashboard,” a male voice barked over a speaker, “continue facing forward, do not move. This is a felony stop.”

I froze, knowing better than to even flinch in the wrong direction. Felony stops were serious business. Wrong move, get shot. I slowly put my hands, palms down, on the dusty dashboard. In the rear-view mirror, I watched the officer, a buffed thirty-something in worn jeans, white T and a jean jacket—these guys always dressed down, ready to mingle with the dregs of society—ease out of the driver’s side. His hand was on the gun in his hip holster, and as he strolled toward my Pontiac, he scanned the interior of my car as though I might be smuggling guns and drugs.

People sure seemed to think I had a lot more going on in my life than I really did.

“Take your left hand,” he said loudly, enunciating each word as though I’d just gotten off the boat, “and open the driver’s door, slowly.”

I opened it. A blast of cold air hit me in the face. If I’d known I’d be spending quality time outside, I’d have worn something heavier than a jean jacket.

“Turn slowly toward me, showing both palms, and exit the vehicle.”

I did as told.

“Turn and face the rear passenger door, and place your hands on top of the vehicle, slowly.”

I was already doing it as he spoke. I’d read hundreds of police reports where the officer issued these same instructions to my previous clients.

The cop frisked me, checked my family jewels, patted the outside of my pants pockets. It wasn’t exactly a stance conducive to conversation, but I had a burning question.

“I don’t often ask men this who have their hands on my thighs, but is there a problem?” I asked politely.

“I’m going to search your car.”

I hoped Sam had picked up everything yesterday, not left even a suspicious dart lying around. “Do you have a legal reason to search my car?”

“I have information from a reliable, confidential informant that you, counselor, are transporting cocaine.”

Counselor
, in police lingo, means lying, slimy, dirtball, dickwad lawyer, emphasis on the lying. So he knew who I was. Or had been. Whoever had set me up had provided some truth and a lot of lies. Considering my glorious past and dazzling recent events, I was a walking piece of guilt to cops like this.

He cuffed my hands behind my back and gruffly led me to the curb where he ordered me to sit. I did as told, despite my rebelling knees. As I sat there on the cold curb, watching him shine his bad-ass flashlight around the interior of my dirty Pontiac, I thought about the irony of my rep as one of the better legal minds when it came to search and seizure laws. Had helped a lot of guys and gals out of spots like this.

Big help that rep did me now.

I wasn’t in a courtroom and he had a gun. In my favor, I
knew
I didn’t have cocaine in the car. Although, by his telling me he’d been told this by a “reliable, confidential informant,” I also knew he’d laid the legal groundwork for admitting this supposed evidence in court.

Who could this informant be? I was already up on first degree, so what mastermind thought it smart to pound in this extra nail?

As two back-up units arrived—must be a slow crime day in the mile high city—I watched my undercover officer pause, then hold up something inside the car, leering me an I-caught-you-asshole look. As he exited, I saw why. He was carrying a plastic baggie filled with a chunky white powder.

Maybe before when I’d been in jail I thought I’d been fucked, but that was a much smaller, less meaningful fucked than the righteously fucked I was now. Out on bond for first-degree, then picked up for drug possession? Oh baby, things were on the down and down. Whoever had planted that coke wanted me off the streets and back in jail, permanently, and they were probably gonna get their wish.

He helped me up, then steered me toward the back seat of his unit, its lights flashing. Cars drove slowly past, wanting to see the real-life cop show. As he opened the back door, I caught a guy across the street watching me.

Short, swarthy, grinning.

“Watch your head.” Detective cradled my skull like a basketball as he pushed into the backseat.

As we drove off, I looked again. Santa was gone.

Those who know don’t tell and those who tell don’t know.
—Zen proverb

“M
r. Dixon should be back momentarily.” When the blonde, who’d introduced herself as Walt Dixon’s assistant, turned back to typing at her computer, Laura noticed a purple hickey on her neck. With her hair pulled up like that, the purple splotch was on display. Like a badge of honor.

Laura looked around. It was an odd waiting room. Lots of green plants—which looked real—metal filing cabinets, a coat rack, even a magazine rack. But no place to sit. Either Walt Dixon never had guests or he didn’t like to make them feel welcome.

She ambled over to the wall-to-ceiling windows that provided a bird’s eye view of the monolithic blocks of glass and metal of Denver high-rises. Below, cars, buses, and taxis were a stream of dots on the street. At Christmas time in years past, she’d sometimes walk from work—she’d worked on the fourth floor of this very building—to Larimer Street to see the canopy of sparkling, white lights strung over the street, or the festive red and green lighting on the facades of Union Station and Daniels & Fisher Tower. She was more social then, loved celebrating birthdays, holidays, TGIFs. Maybe she’d be that way again. Maybe next year.

She glanced at her watch, trying not to feel miffed that Walt Dixon was late. But she’d use his tardiness to her advantage, schmooze with the assistant, learn a little more about him.

She crossed back to the desk, looked down at the clutter of papers, a plastic stand-up calendar with daily quotes, a miniature cactus potted in a tiny clay pot, and a lipstick-stained coffee cup with “Dinky” printed on it.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Dixon?”

The woman looked over her shoulder at Laura, shrugged. “Few years.”

“Did you work in another TeleForce department before that?” When the woman—Dinky?—frowned, Laura quickly added, “Because I used to work at TeleForce, was curious if we’ve worked on the same projects.”

“Oh. Nah, didn’t work here before that.”

“What’s your name?”

“Cathy. Jessup.”

“So, how’d you end up working at TeleForce? Was it because of Walt Dixon or did you—”

“What is this, an interrogation?” interrupted a man’s voice.

Laura turned, met cool blue eyes assessing her. Her first impression was
slick
. Designer suit—Michael Kors if she wasn’t mistaken—tan line around his eyes from recently worn ski goggles, cock-sure smile.

“Laura, right?” He extended his hand.

“Laura Fitzhugh.” They shook. “Walt Dixon, I presume.”

“Call me Walt. Dinky, hold my calls.”

His office was neat, organized, awash in manly browns and mossy greens. A cherry wood desk dominated the room. Walt crossed behind it, sat down, gestured for her to take one of the guest chairs. So people were allowed to sit in
here
, but not outside.

The beige walls were bare except for a framed diploma—business degree from Boston University—and a blown-up photo of a sailing boat. No people, just the boat. Blue skies, big fluffy clouds, turquoise waters.

“Belongs to my uncle,” he said, following her line of vision.

“Where does he sail?”

“All over.” Walt folded his hands in front of him, looked at her expectantly. “Thank you for emailing your resume. I chatted briefly with John Vogt, who said you’d done a dynamite job running several IT projects for him.”

John Vogt had been one of her peers, a self-effacing fellow who ran software projects for the mobile phone division. So Walt Dixon was calling her references. Good sign.

“Tell me how you’re going to save me money, Ms. Fitzhugh.”

As she discussed several past accomplishments, and how those models could be applied to his department, he maintained eye contact, smiled pleasantly, nodded. But she had the feeling he wasn’t really listening.

After she wound up her pitch, they sat in silence. Cathy-Dinky laughed on the other side of the door.

“She’s on the phone a lot,” he said.

“Shall I check out your network, give you an estimate?”

“She ended up working at TeleForce after answering an ad for an assistant. I had little to do with it, except telling HR that I wanted someone who was reliable, reasonably intelligent and could type with all ten fingers.”

He didn’t want her to think he and Dinky were anything other than boss and assistant.

“I trust Vogt’s recommendation. When can you start?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow’s fine. Be here at nine, Cathy will take you to HR, where they’ll bore you ad nauseum with paperwork for several hours. After that, I’d like you to check out our existing network, mock up a plan. Think you can wrap this up in a month?”

“Certainly.” But she wouldn’t be here then. She’d be here only as long as it took to find a link between Walt Dixon and Brianna. If there was a link. Otherwise, she was quitting in a few weeks so she could spend those last days with Rick before the hearing.

The black phone on his desk rang. Reading the caller ID, he said, “Good, a month it is.” He picked up the receiver. “Good news?” He pivoted in his chair, waving Laura out of the room as the chair spun slowly until its back was to her.

“If you think you’re free, there’s no escape possible.”
—Ram Dass

“W
e’ve got to stop meeting like this,” I said.

Laura’s eye twitched.

“Sorry, baby.” I shifted the receiver to my other ear. “I was trying to make a joke. It hasn’t been easy, especially for you. I wish I was on the other side of this glass, holding you.”

She sat there, holding the receiver to her ear, looking a little stunned, a little tired. Like a haunted deer in the headlights. Finally, a corner of her red lips lifted.

“Me, too.”

Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, a single, dark curl lying like a comma on her temple. Blue shiny power dusted her lids, a rose pink tinted pale cheeks, the pastels shaken up by a voluptuous red lipstick slathered on her full, puffy lips. Pearl drop earrings matched a white button-up sweater.

“You got the job.”

“How’d you know?”

“You look like an office creature. A beautiful one.”

She mindlessly ran a finger along her hairline. I missed those moments of vanity.

“I barely finished my pitch, and he hired me. Just like that.” She shrugged. “I started today. Spent the morning filling out forms for HR, watching a video on sexual harassment in the work place. I’m on my lunch hour.”

Because the jail taped all communications between inmates and visitors, except those with their attorneys, we couldn’t talk about my case or the potential evidence Laura would be trying to find at TeleForce.

“Rick,” she said, lowering her voice to a hoarse whisper, “was there…?”

Was there coke in the Pontiac. A wave of disbelief washed over me. She thought I’d been carrying? Worse, using?